


Disappear

by Osidiano



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Brutal Murder, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Necrophilia, POV First Person, Rage Fantasy, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-01-03
Updated: 2003-01-03
Packaged: 2018-04-12 02:26:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4461815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Osidiano/pseuds/Osidiano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Songfic to Jars of Clay's 'Disappear,' sans full lyrics.</p><p>1x4, kissing corpses, hallucinations, and eight flavors of crazy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disappear

**Author's Note:**

> Please keep in mind that this is really old, and I didn't rewrite or edit it before putting it up here. You get it in all its 'teenage!Sid' glory. You're welcome.

Beautiful. That was the only way to describe him. He had such a soft, sweet smile, and I fell in love all over again every time I looked into those sad eyes — dark blue and hard metal, remind me of home. I wanted to reach out and touch him, but he was so far away; across a vast expanse of secrets and lies, an ocean's distance between us as we sat at the kitchen table, me with my back to the door and he with his head bent down and a cup of coffee cradled in his hands. I wanted. . . to ask him what he was thinking, to tell him that I was still here and that, yes, I was more than willing to listen to anything he ever had to say. But I didn't, and instead, I just continued to watch him. To examine the way that his pale hair fell into his face and obscured it from view, to make my eyes become intimately acquainted with each and every fallen shadow. I wasn't expecting him to move, to stand and look at me with those beautiful,  _beautiful_ eyes for even a moment before he started to walk away.

My chair fell over when I stood, and the clatter caused him to look down to the floor near my feet. I could feel my lips tremble as I moved them, but I didn't hear my voice when I tried to speak past the growing knot of emotion in my throat. He didn't notice me until I grabbed the collar of his shirt, until I had pulled our faces close and I was practically breathing into his opened mouth. I knew that there was still an eternity stretched tight between us, and I didn't have to look past his own averted gaze to realize that fact in full truth. At first, I was speaking slowly, quietly. But as I continued, the words began to roll off my tongue in the form of a rushed explanation, growing in volume. I'm not sure what I was trying to explain, though, or whether it was working when I started screaming at him.

Maybe he wasn't really listening to me, or maybe he just didn't care, but in either case, he didn't speak or pull away. He didn't even resist when I grabbed a fistful of his hair and slammed that beautiful face of his into the table. I think I started crying, but if I did then I'm not sure why. I had no reason to be sad. I was angry with him. He didn't react to me, and so I was reaching for the gun tucked into the waistband of my jeans simply out of habit. I was pressing it against the back of his skull before I knew it, the reality of the situation lost on me. It almost felt like a dream; thick and hazy surrealism seeping in from all sides, something about the whole thing sounding totally insane. But it wasn't. It wasn't a dream and I wasn't insane. I don't ever remember being insane.

_(But I'd really love to know_  
_I'd really love to climb_  
_my way into your heart_  
_and see what I could find)_

He had his hands palm down on the table by his head, though he wasn't doing anything. It was all for show: a bizarrely out of place struggle that was supposed to take place but didn't. He'd never been very good at acting, and I wondered why he even bother. It wasn't fooling anyone. It didn't matter, though, why he was doing it. Not to me, and especially not after I pulled the trigger. After I felt the jerking recoil of the gun and he went limp in my grip. I did it again. And again. And again, until the chambers were empty and the back of his head was a mess of blond and blood. My fingers were sticky, stained red with sin, and I finally let go, numbly watching his body slide to the white tiles with a small thud.

_(I'd walk into your skin_  
_swim through your veins_  
_See it from your eyes_  
_'Cause I'd really love to try)_

My mouth was hanging open, eyes wide with shock when I saw what was left of the other side of his head. I had forgotten that the exit holes were larger than the entrance ones, and there was virtually nothing left of the upper half of his face. No eyes or forehead; the bridge of his nose was blown away, and he no longer had any cheekbones. A thick, yellowish slime was oozing its way out of him, pooling on the ground and dripping down off the table, mixing with the red and gray that had previously decorated the inside of his skull. My other hand loosened, and the gun fell wordlessly to my feet, hitting heavy and sounding too loud in the silence that always followed. I closed my eyes slowly and sank to my knees near him.

I was reaching out for him then, past the ocean and eternity when my hands finally touched his face. They dug into the holes were those beautiful eyes of his should have gone and, using it as leverage, I pulled him into my lap and wrapped my arms around him. I didn't say that I was sorry because I didn't want to lie. The truth was a hard thing to tell and it tended to change every time I tried to open my mouth. But I didn't think about that as I held him, as I gently brushed back the locks of red-gold. Something. . . something in the back of my mind was bothering me. He was dead. He wasn't coming back. More importantly, though, was the simple fact that even now he somehow seemed erotically beautiful with blood layering the remaining half of his face, streaking his hair, and causing his clothes to stick to the thin body within. It was strangely sexy, in a way, to bathe myself in him, to be this close, this intimate and personal, with someone who had always been so very far from me.

_(It's not safe_  
_but I'm so near_  
_Invading every place you go_  
_to disappear)_

My lips were against his before I knew what I was doing, before I stopped to think about what was happening. He even managed to taste like death when my tongue slipped into the lifeless hollow in search of him, but it didn't matter. It only made me hunger for him; his mouth, heart, and soul. I wanted to own what was left, and I could feel my fingers pressing harder into the blown out sockets of his eyes as I tried to deepen our kiss. It was a moment longer before I pulled away, a thin trail of saliva hanging between us, breathing heavily. The experience brought along a sense of euphoria, partially from the physical act, but mostly from the psychological taboo that I'd always known of. I was pretty sure that I wasn't supposed to do that.

I stood up, swaying slightly and only just caught myself on the edge of the table when my feet started to slide out from under me. His body was sprawled across the red tiles again, one side of his face partially submerged in the pool of his own blood. I found myself wishing that he still had his eyes as I tried to wipe off my mouth on the back of one sticky hand. It smeared, but did not go away. If he still had eyes, then maybe I would know what he thought of. . . of everything. Of what I'd just done, or of what I was too afraid to do now. Would he hate me, if he could have seen it? I didn't know, but the very thought of that possibility made my stomach churn and coil with a sick worry.

His beauty was still intoxicating, clinging to the air as if it were trying to take its place. The smell of his death called out to me, pulled my gaze along his body and made me wonder about things that I should have closed my mind to. I could taste the lead and gunsmoke as I sucked in one breath after another, and I knew that I was shaking. The red gore was starting to take on an interesting shade of virtue that I had never before known of when I finally closed my eyes against it all. I was trying to get a hold of some last remnant of restraint without success. Fighting with myself and losing, I was desperate for some kind of distraction. That was when I heard my name from the doorway, said like a question by a voice that shouldn't have been speaking. . .

I turned, horrified when I saw the speaker. It was the only person in the world that it couldn't have been. He smiled when I looked to him, leaned back against the doorframe and sipped his black coffee from its mug. My eyes glanced back to the body on the floor, to the blood and slime around it, and to my own hands, forever tainted with a forbidden desire. He asked me what I was doing, why I was just standing there, and I couldn't answer. Why wasn't he dead? . . . Was he even real? The idea came as a surprise to me, but it was more surprising that I didn't know. And I didn't feel like I was dreaming this time, when I picked the gun up off the floor. He sounded worried, more than just a little scared as I pointed it to his head. I heard him telling me to calm down, but it didn't matter. I was calm. I was also so very calm, and that didn't change when I pulled the trigger and found the chambers to be full all over again.

_(I want to get inside_  
_the you you're hiding from_  
_I want to get inside_  
_the you that you are hiding from)_


End file.
